


Relish

by ms4815162342



Series: Lavender [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, HTP, HYDRA Trash Party, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, fem!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6337267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms4815162342/pseuds/ms4815162342
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of a day in the life of Bucky Barnes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relish

**Author's Note:**

> Literally just supposed to be a female version of Sebastian Stan. I love that guy, but she just had to be a girl.
> 
> Hydra Trash Party = past abuse/non-con
> 
> Sorry

They walk out of the tower together because Steve says they’re going to get food from a vendor. Bucky doesn’t know where she’s going to put this food because her stomach is still full from the slices of toast earlier; she’ll be good until tomorrow really. He likes to eat a lot more often than that, and some of the meals he’s shown her lately have been almost indecent with their extra flourishes. Why is food sprinkled with bits of parsley? What function does that serve? Back at Hydra, everything was cut and dry; simple, military grade food.  
  
The sun has had time to warm up the streets of New York, so their jackets are really unnecessary. However, Captain America can’t be seen out and about in civilian clothing, and Bucky knows how people get uncomfortable being around her metal appendage. She’s still trying to get used to being around large groups of people outdoors without having ulterior motives. Her eyes jump around, taking in faces, cars, cameras. Steve hasn’t said anything about scouting this area, but protocol is engraved in her subconscious. She’s walking slightly behind him, to his right, but he reaches down to grab her prosthetic hand. Some handlers like to show affection in the typical sense; some get more happiness if they just beat it out of her. He isn’t looking at her, but their hands clasp together as they walk the rest of the way to the food stand.  
  
The man is selling hot dogs, and Steve checks with her before placing his order. When he tries to recommend having more than one, her nose wrinkles up in disgust. Seriously, how do they think she can retain mobility eating all the time? Steve gets a couple for himself, and they meander over to a parkside bench.  
  
Bucky sits down with hers while Steve doubles back for extra napkins. There are a few condiment packets tucked in beside the buns, and she extracts the ketchup and mustard ones. She has to be careful when tearing them open because sometimes that metal arm of hers doesn’t know how to use less than full force. They’re opened, drained, and tossed into the trash can sitting next to her. Looking down, she absentmindedly notices that Steve has the same packets next to his hot dogs. She squeezes the ketchup onto his and tosses the empty paper.  
  
She’s taken one bite out of hers so far and is trying to mentally prepare herself for eating the whole thing when he gets back. How do people eat like this? she thinks. She can see others lining up at the booth trying to get their own lunches; they aren’t the only couple here.  
  
Her absorption with the unusual surroundings distract her from noticing Steve’s silence.  
  
“Bucky?” he starts.  
  
“Yes?” she responds, staring at a red haired child impatient to get her food.  
  
“You put ketchup on mine?” he continues.  
  
The girl’s face lights up as her father hands over a hot dog slathered with relish. She quickly dumps half of it down the front of her dress.  
  
“Ja,” she says.  
  
“Why didn’t you put mustard on it like yours?” he asks.  
  
Now the girl is beginning to cry. How quickly her emotions can change, but at the same time be completely genuine.  
  
“You don’t like mustard,” she says as she takes another bite, watching the father sop up as much relish as he can with a handful of paper napkins.  
  
“How do you know that?” Steve presses. The urgency in his voice doesn’t faze her.  
  
The vendor replaces the lost relish on the girl’s hot dog. She’s sort of smiling again. The father grabs another bunch of napkins, probably in case of a repeat incident. She’s taking the first bite of her lunch, and Bucky mimics her. The girl is giving her dad the thumbs up signal.  
  
“Every time we get hot dogs from Madge’s you tell them no mustard,” she finally responds.  
  
“Madge’s?” he repeats quickly.  
  
Her eyes finally snap away from the stand. “What?”  
  
“You remember Madge’s?” he asks again.  
  
“Who’s Madge?”

  


 

Steve practically marches her back to the tower, and Bucky knows that after lunch means doctor’s meetings. She hates the man they make her see. He’s constantly talking to her, using her own words against her, trying to make her remember things she’s designed to forget. Being with him is like the opposite of the Chair. He dredges up old pain and writes it all down as fast as he can. He tries to document her suffering and refuses to wipe it away. When this “therapy” time comes around, she almost misses Rumlow. At least she knew exactly what to do around him and what he wanted. She told Steve that once and he left for a few hours. When he came back he was covered in sweat and had bloody knuckles. She knew better than to ask if it was his own or someone else’s. Handlers don’t like the asset to ask many questions.  
  
When they get to Dr. Paige’s office, Bucky takes her usual seat on the brown leather couch. Ever since SHIELD fell, Stark has done his best to host the remaining members at the tower. Paige set his office up here and works with most of the Avengers to help keep them sane. Bucky has never seen Natasha meet with him and fleetingly wishes she could have the freedom to choose like that.  
  
The dark Dr. Paige is talking with Steve near the doorway. She can hear him listening quietly while Steve recaps their morning. There’s a picture of Paige and his family on his desk; just his wife and daughter standing next to him with smiles. It makes her think about the fair skinned girl from the hot dog stand. She feels her mind kicking up again so shuts everything down. She doesn’t want this, to remember; she wants to forget. She has to convince them to put her in the Chair.

 

She isn’t running missions and she isn’t taking cock, so Bucky is altogether confused as to what she’s being used for. Their brain toying agenda is taking much longer than any other situation she’s been in. By now, her handler should have cashed in on one of her talents, so quite frankly the Winter Soldier is getting angrier and angrier about her time at the tower.  
  
Paige is talking to her about her day so far; Steve has told him things that aren’t true, mixed in with the facts. She clearly is getting her information confused; it’s clearly time for a reset. But Paige continues to ask her to elaborate on the same story that Steve told him. This doctor can’t even remember what one person tells him; he has to corroborate with someone else. Seems like a useless doctor to her.  
  
She can feel herself getting closer to the rage that lurks beneath her skin. She hasn’t had an outburst in a century probably, and yet the longer she sits on that couch listening to this doctor try and pry something out of her, the more it threatens to bubble over.  
  
“I want Rumlow,” she blurts out. Sure, he was a sadistic fuck who broke more of her bones than anyone else, but at least he was straightforward and always got her to the Chair. She has to get to the Chair.  
  
Paige looks at her for a long time. She has to grit her teeth to remain in control.  
  
“Why are you asking for Rumlow?”  
  
Their games are getting to her, making her sick deep in her stomach. Is this how they want her to react?  
  
She’s on her feet, fists clenched tight next to her hips. Her mouth is a snarl as she grates out, “Rumlow.”  
  
The doctor is taking notes again. He seems a little uncomfortable to have this wall of muscle standing right in front of him.  
  
“James…” he starts.  
  
“Rumlow. Now,” she growls.  
  
“James, he isn’t--”  
  
“NOW!” she demands. “Bring me Brock Rumlow or I’m going to snap your spinal cord.”  
  
Paige presses a button on a remote looking object next to him but doesn’t say anything. Bucky loses it.  
  
They think they can keep her in this mind indefinitely, subject her to continuous tricks, and threaten her by taking away the Chair? And still expect her to function properly? She’s going to make them clamp her down and erase.  
  
She doesn’t show Paige any mercy. The first punch she slams across his face is from the enhanced arm. She expects immediate retribution, but isn’t surprised that scientists like him are naturally weak and defenseless. They aren’t trained like the soldiers are. Another strike breaks his glasses and busts open his nose. This isn’t enough; she needs his body to suffer like hers. The left hand wraps around his throat and slings him across the room. His body is harshly stopped by the book covered wall. The asset strides across the room, and Paige is helpless against her. This is barely even a fight. She swings her right leg through the air three times, connecting with his ribs each time. The second one gave her a satisfying crack, but she keeps going. She has to ensure they’ll be placing her in the Chair after this.  
  
Paige is virtually unconscious by now, and when the asset picks him up with her metal arm again, the doctor goes as limp as a rag doll. She’s walking him over to the large, floor-to-ceiling window when the star spangled handler bursts through the door, responding to Paige’s distress call.  
  
“Bucky!” he yells.  
  
The asset continues to make her way over to the glass. She drops the broken doctor to the ground and slams her metal fist into the window; it explodes in a symphony of broken shards, eliminating the wall from existence. Her foot begins to nudge Paige toward the drop off.  
  
“Soldier!”  
  
Her head whips around. The handler is staring at her with wide eyes.  
  
“Soldier,” he repeats, calmer. “Back away from the window.”  
  
They want her to keep playing this game. Show them how she can still be controlled without using the Chair. The cycle of infinite torture has to continue. Never disobey a handler. It’s the golden, starting rule. Some handlers have incapacitated her during use, but Hydra deals with them after the fact. It’s not her place to decide which orders she should or shouldn’t follow in the line of duty. However, wanting to be finally punished makes her realize what she has to do.  
  
“No,” she says it quietly, and even with the wind coming through the missing window, the handler can hear it easily. He’s floored. She uses it to her advantage and scoops Paige up with her foot, preparing to kick him to the concrete below.  
  
The handler runs up behind her, grabs the hood of her jacket, and throws her into the wall on the opposite side.  
  
She’s staggering to her feet again as she sees him try and reach the doctor. The asset charges him, but his reactions are faster than a normal human’s. He turns around, using his momentum to block and throw her back to the same wall. She’s scowling as she tries again, coming in with a brutal left hook. The handler throws up an arm to block before she can make contact. She’s throwing punches left and right, and the handler is meeting every single one with a solid block. She knows she doesn’t have any weapons on her, but a quick glance down at the doctor’s desk shows her a shiny letter opener sitting near the edge. A few more punches to distract the handler, and the asset quickly snatches the blade up.  
  
He’s breathing heavy; she isn’t.  
  
He eyes the blade as the asset sizes up the situation around them. She figures kicking the doctor to the ground below is out of the question at this point. The handler is doing too good of a job barricading his limp body. She’ll have to settle for seeing out her new plan: doing as much damage to the new handler as possible.  
  
They’ve been still and quiet for so long now, the handler tries to speak with her. “Bucky, put down the knife. You don’t have to--”  
  
And she is charging forward again, blade clasped in her right hand, soaring toward his ribs. He’s quick enough to block, but doesn’t see that mean left coming in again. She pounds into his face with her metal hand, but it isn’t nearly as soft as the doctor’s. He backs away, looking more surprised than injured.  
  
Natasha crashes into the room in a flurry of red hair, stopping when she sees the situation in front of her. “Steve?” she says loudly.  
  
The asset uses it to her advantage. She rushes him again, not letting him rest. They’re throwing punches, kicks, sparring without truly hurting the other. She does a fancy piece of footwork and manages to drag the blade’s edge across his face. Now he has a weeping cut below his left eye, and he still doesn’t look angry. He’s persistently trying to disarm her, and finally manages to catch onto her human hand, forcing her to drop the blade. He twists it painfully behind her, forcing her onto her knees before him. The handler has the perfect opportunity to deal some final blows; she can’t defend herself in this position.  
  
He hesitates. She snatches the fallen blade with her metal arm and thinly slices through his abdomen. He disarms her again, making sure to kick the blade away this time.  
  
They’re both heaving, the asset crouching on the ground in front of him as he holds her arm behind her. Most of her braid has come undone; strips of hair are hanging down into her face.  
  
“Do it,” she spits out. “Break it.”  
  
The handler is staring at her with wide eyes, skin looking pale next to his vivid red blood.  
  
“Break it!” she screams.  
  
“No!” the handler shouts back at the same volume. “I’m not Rumlow. It doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to do this, Buck.”  
  
“I’m not going to stop,” she tells him, eyeing some of the objects they’ve knocked down during their fight, trying to find something sharp enough to make a good weapon. “I will never stop until I kill you. You’ll have to break--”  
  
The room is filled with a sickening crack and the asset’s scream as Natasha swings her leg through the air, connecting with the soldier’s elbow and shattering it.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment/leave a kudos if you like it or want more. I really want to write more.


End file.
